Sacrifice
by Riathe Mai
Summary: WARNING: SEASON 8, after Clip Show. Sam had simply shut down, sinking in on himself so completely Dean was helpless to know what to do to fix it. All he did know was that he couldn't leave him alone, no matter how much it hurt to see Sam so sick, so lost, so broken. A speculation scene for Season 8 Finale, Sacrifice, based on that picture of Sam-you know the one.


**Spoilers: ****SEASON EIGHT, SPECULATION SCENE FOR 'SACRIFICE'****.**

**A/N1: **I can't believe the season eight finale is upon us, and I think it's going to be brutal. I know I'm supposed to be working on other things, but that picture of Sam—I'm sure you know the one I'm talking about—just grabbed me by the heart and wouldn't let go. This is where my Muse decided to take it.

**A/N2: **My beta and bestest friend in the whole wide world, Kailene, had read part of this story, but I hadn't finished it. I really want to get this posted before the episode posts so I am releasing this up betaed. Hopefully, there aren't any glaring typoes.

**Warnings: ****Season Eight**, references to events from "Clip Show", and language

**Summary:** Sam had simply shut down, sinking in on himself so completely Dean was helpless to know what to do to fix it. All he did know was that he couldn't leave him alone, no matter how much it hurt to see Sam so sick, so lost, so broken.

**Sacrifice**

It was the look on Sam's face, even more than the ravages the trials and the terrible illness they were causing had left there, that punched the air from Dean's lungs. He looked… fragile, as though one touch would shatter him. More so, he looked defeated, and that was a look Dean had never thought he'd see on his stubborn, determined little brother's face.

Sarah's death had broken something, stealing the last dregs of Sam's strength, his very will, as viciously as that fucking hex bag had stolen her last breath. He was a husk, an empty, gutted, hopeless shell; his spirit laid out and unmoving on that hotel floor right next to her body.

Beautiful, brave Sarah. She'd been a real turning point for Sam, and the bitter irony wasn't lost on Dean at all. When she'd first come into their lives, she'd reawakened something in Sam that Dean had feared had died on that ceiling in Palo Alto. She'd breathed life back into his broken heart; and when they'd left New York it had been with the sense that maybe Melanie Merchant wasn't the only ghost who'd been laid to rest.

And now, years—centuries to Sam—later, she'd come back into their lives only to be ripped right out from under Sam's helpless hands; taking back the very measure of life she'd given him with every breath she'd gasped and at the time when Sam had so little to spare.

Sam's eyes were empty, fixed on the floor a few feet in front of where he sat. The flesh around them was bruised and parchment thin, stretched so tight over the sharp bones of his face that the capillaries and veins beneath shown through, red and raw as though he'd been crying. He hadn't. Though his eyes had welled as he'd sat on that hotel floor, his long fingers fisted in his hair and his expression so stricken it had frozen Dean where he'd stood, not a single tear had fallen.

Not then and not since.

Sam had simply shut down, sinking in on himself so completely Dean was helpless to know what to do to fix it. All he did know was that he couldn't leave him alone, no matter how much it hurt to see Sam so sick, so lost, so broken. The fear was so much stronger; fear that Sam was fading away before his eyes, and if Dean were to leave him alone for even just a few minutes, he'd come back and find him gone.

It was that fear that made Dean take a step forward when every ounce of self-perseverance said to turn around and run, save himself from the pain that was coming. His sole made a soft _shushing_ sound on the floor and Sam's eyes drifted in his direction. It was the only reaction Sam gave him. Dean set his jaw and squared his shoulders, and _made_ himself cross the short distance between them.

He sat down beside his brother, his shoulders mere inches from Sam's. He tried not to think about how much closer that put him to Sam's body than it used to with all the weight Sam had lost in the last few months.

They sat in silence for a spell, Sam's rattling breath the only sound in the room. In truth, Dean didn't have the first clue what to say to him. No, Sam wasn't okay. No, he wasn't hungry or thirsty. It didn't matter if he was cold or hot or nauseous or in pain or…

"'m tired, Dean," Sam said suddenly, his voice sandpaper rough and barely there.

"I know, Sammy."

Dean didn't bother suggesting that Sam sleep. Instead, he leaned in; closing the mere inches between them so their shoulders touched. He felt some of Sam's weight settle into him.

Sam slowly shook his head. "I mean… j'st so tired of…always letting people down."

"Sarah wasn't your fault, Sam," Dean said.

"Crowley went after her… because she… she meant something t'me."

There was nothing Dean could say about that. In part, because it was the truth. If she hadn't meant anything to Sam, there would have been no need for Crowley to touch a hair on her head. Mostly, Dean knew that if he tried to convince Sam of anything other than what Sam believed to be true, Sam would argue; and as much as Dean would have given just about anything he owned to see that spark in Sam's eye, he knew Sam didn't have the strength to spare on pointless arguments.

"He did it to break us."

Sam nodded, his gaze returning to that same spot on the floor he'd been staring at when Dean had first found him.

"And if we let it, she died for nothing."

"And if… I fail…"

"You won't," Dean said confidently, swallowing painfully around the lump in his throat. "You're gonna show me that light at the end of it all, remember? You promised and I'm gonna hold ya to it."

Sam looked at him out of the corner of his eye, and for a second Dean thought he saw something glistening above the rim of his lower lashes. "My track record… 't's not so good, Dean."

"Hey," Dean protested.

He would have turned on the bench so he was facing Sam head on, ready to grab him by both arms if that's what it took; but more of Sam's weight was leaning against his shoulder. Sam's eyes were closed, and his brow was tense. His breath was coming faster; rasping over his throat and catching with each dry swallow.

"No," he uttered. "It's just… I've let you down so many…"

"Stop it."

But, Sam shook his head. He reached across his lap and grabbed Dean's arm. "Please, Dean. Just…"

His grasp was weak, no more than the weight of his hand and the subtle curl of his long fingers. If he'd wanted to, Dean could have broken away by simply moving his arm aside. It was the hint of stubbornness that flared across Sam's face that held him, though. That had strength; fleeting, hard-won, but real.

He settled back on the bench and forced the muscles under Sam's too-warm hand to relax. Immediately, the tension eased from Sam's face. The pain did not.

"I keep failing you," Sam said, his voice more harsh breath than sound. "I think I'm doing the right thing, but… I keep getting it wrong, again… and again. I keep… falling short of the mark, and… people keep getting hurt."

Dean wanted Sam to stop talking. He didn't have the air for this and it was clear by the way he had to stop every few words to draw in a breath. It was only a matter of time before gasping for breath turned into coughing and coughing turned into choking; and Sam sure as hell didn't have the air or the strength for that.

But, there was nothing Dean could do to stop him that wouldn't just make the situation worse. Sam was determined to have this talk and the sooner Dean let him finish it, the sooner Sam would calm down. Maybe Dean could even get him to swallow a few sips of water afterwards.

And maybe, those few sips of water would actually stay down.

And maybe, just maybe, they'd catch a fucking break. Just once in their _fucking _lives.

"I really thought it… it would be different, this time, y' know?" Sam looked at Dean, and not all the pain in his eyes was physical. "I really thought I could do this. For both of us. But, now…" His eyes welled, but he didn't look away. "I jus' don't wanna let y' down. Not again."

Dean felt his own eyes start to burn, and he had to blink to clear his vision. "We're gonna go this, Sammy." He covered Sam's hand with his own; trying not to notice just how sharp and prominent the outline of every bone and tendon felt. "I need you to believe that. An' I need you t' keep on believin' that until the very end. Whatever the hell, that end is. You hear me?"

The shaky nod Sam gave him lacked the conviction Dean had been hoping for, but he took it, anyway. He squeezed Sam's hand carefully, the bones shifting beneath even that gently touch; and he started to stand, hoping to coax Sam off that bench and out of that empty, desolate room.

"Dean?"

Nothing stopped Dean faster than the sound of Sam calling his name; especially when it carried the trace of doubt he heard in Sam's weak voice.

"Yeah?"

"We're okay, now, right?" he asked, his gaze fixed on the floor at Dean's feet. "I mean you and me? We're good?"

"Yeah, Sammy," he answered immediately. Maybe a little _too_ immediately.

"'cause that's what I need to believe, Dean." Sam looked up and met Dean's eyes. "No matter how this ends. I just need to know… that we're good."

Dean held his gaze, realizing in that very second several surprising—and maybe not so surprising—things.

He knew those eyes. The topography of the face around them had changed so drastically it was almost unrecognizable, and yet the eyes were still Sam's; and when they looked at him like that, with such raw and open emotion, they tripped every protective, big brother switch Dean had. He had never been able to bear seeing Sam in pain.

Even when they were at odds with each other and the anger and hurt was so strong the very sight of him filled Dean with the overwhelming desire to punch him through a wall, there was still a part of Dean that wanted to rip the lungs out of the bastard who dared to mess with his little brother. It didn't matter that the bastard was he.

The simple truth was that he loved him, and the thought of having to go through this life without Sam at his side was unbearable. And, he knew that Sam loved him. He did, though it was sometimes too easy to listen to the cruel voice of doubt that whispered in his ear in his darker moments, that voice that liked to tell him that Sam would rather be anywhere but with him.

Sam was with him by choice; and there had been something truly magical about seeing Sam find his place as a Man of Letters. It was where he belonged, surrounded by his beloved books and research and knowledge. It was what Dean had always wanted for Sam, and it still amazed him to realize that Sam wanted things for Dean, too.

And how bitter was the timing of it all, that they should finally reach this point only to have to watch it spiral down the drain in bloody drops? Dean needed Sam to believe that they could win this, but Sam just needed to know that they were still brothers. It would be so easy to give him what he wanted, to tell him what he wanted to hear whether it was the truth or not; but Dean didn't need to lie.

He mustered a smile through his watery vision. His throat felt like he'd swallowed a golf ball. "We're good, Sammy," he promised. "We're good."


End file.
